Let the Light In
by Tobiume
Summary: Brienne finds Margaery in the woods and escorts her back to her tent.


Let the Light In

* * *

Smoke from the low-burning campfires stings her eyes. She scrubs the back of her hand across her face furiously, wiping at the tears that keep prickling. The lacings on her gown are loose, and she pulls at them in the dark, tightening them. Her inner thighs are wet underneath her skirt, and she stands with her legs apart, letting the chill of the night creep up her legs, though fingers of cold are no replacement for a guided hand.

Renly's tent is at her back. He is inside, with her brother Loras. The space around is cleared, patrolled by the Kingsguard. They are there to protect the king's person, but they also guard his privacy. Still, whispers run through the camp like a fever. Most men know that the king does not lie with the queen, that he prefers her brother. When Margaery is with child, when the line is secured, what people say will no longer matter. But if Renly continues to refuse her, she will never conceive.

Margaery sighs, smoothing her skirts, resisting the urge to crumple them in her palms like she did as a child. She is a grown woman, even if she is still a maiden, _still_, after weeks of marriage, and she is also a queen. She must be poised and perfect and above reproach, even for a wrinkled gown, even in a war camp. She also must conceive a son. This last will take time, time that she has already lost, time that is in ever-shorter supply as the war closes in around them.

Her skirts swirl around her ankles as she turns. It's full dark, now, and guards throw more wood onto the largest fires, shouting and laughing as if the lateness of the hour means nothing to them. She should return to her own tent, plan what next to say to Renly. Perhaps the next time Loras arrives to interrupt her time with Renly, she should stay, rather than allowing her husband to turn her away with excuses of urgent matters. The only "matter" he attends to with any urgency is her brother's cock.

The night is wild with noise. Crackling flames, the rattle of armor and weaponry, the rumbling voices of many men, and, from behind her, two low voices murmuring by the light of candles. She cannot hear what Renly and Loras are saying. Their words aren't audible. But after a long space of silence, during which she nearly leaves, she hears a long sigh, then a moan. Her face warms as hot anger swells within her. She should have returned to her own tent earlier, not remained to overhear their private moments.

But she is angry. She loves her brother and wants him to be happy, and she knows that one cannot alter their inclinations. But still, she can't help but feel that Renly should be with her. He should be sighing at her touch, murmuring to her in the dark. He is her husband, and if he could not do his duty by her, he should not have married her.

Perhaps it is jealousy she feels, Margaery allows, and not anger. She is lonely, and she wants to be touched. Although she had entered the marriage knowing Renly preferred men, she still imagined that he would come to her bed occasionally. After all, why marry but for the sake of an heir? But it has been weeks and he has shown no interest, except for one night, when he had very drunkenly explored her breasts with one hand. The other hand had rested on his manhood, but he had fallen asleep before it grew the slightest bit hard.

Margaery knows that most of the men in this camp would be happy to deflower her. And likely, once she has borne Renly's heir, he will not mind in the slightest if she takes a lover, as long as she does so discreetly. But the child must be born first. There must be no doubt as to its parentage. So for now, all she can do is wait, and plan, and hope that she can draw Renly to her bed before it is too late.

One of the Kingsguard pass, and Margaery pulls back against the shadows of the tent. She would rather not be discovered here. When her path is clear, she darts out in the direction of her tent, but then she hears another knight and ducks behind a tree instead. They stop to converse, and so she leans back to wait. The candlelight inside Renly's tent casts odd patterns on the fabric, and she tries not to think about what her brother and her husband are doing while her shoulders and back collect scratches from the rough bark of the tree.

It's difficult for her to stand still. As has happened for weeks now, since she first began to imagine lying with Renly, she feels many odd sensations between her legs. She twitches and aches and is wet. Sometimes very wet. None of it feels bad, but it makes her want something, something that she doesn't entirely know how to describe. She presses her legs together and shifts her thighs, but it isn't enough to ease her desire. The path is quiet, so she loosens the lacings on her skirt, just enough for her to slip her hand into the waistband. She presses her fingers between her legs. There is a spot below the clump of tight, coarse curls that mark the join in her thighs that she discovered last year. When she rubs it, which she sometimes does in bed at night, she feels very good. But doing so has not eased her frustration in these past weeks, so she's nearly given up on it. Tonight, though, something about being in the open air excites her.

Her fingers are slick as they slide along her skin, and she pulls them out and holds them under her nose, curious. She smells of salt, it seems, with hints of sweat. Breathing in her own scent sends a shiver through her, and she hastily puts her hand back inside her skirt, fingering the spot with the tip of her finger. It feels good, but she wants to feel more, so she uses two fingertips, then pushes at herself farther down, trying to find where the wet is coming from. She does, and her fingers slip in easily. She moves them in and out, as rapidly as she can, but it's hard to do while she is standing.

Lost in concentration, in pleasure, she does not hear the clink of armor, the rustle of a new cloak, and she sees nothing, because her eyes have drifted shut, closing out the world.

"Your Grace!" There is a note of horror, but also an odd catch in the woman's deep voice. "What are you doing out here?"

Margaery's eyes fly open. It is Brienne of Tarth, the awkward lady knight who bested Loras at the tourney. Not many have bested Loras, and although she admired Ser Brienne's skill, she is still unsure what she thinks of her. She takes her hand from her skirt. She isn't ashamed to be caught; at least, not as ashamed as she should be. This is something one does in their bed, in the dark. Not in the woods against a tree. But why shouldn't she please herself? No one else is pleasing her.

"I'd imagine that was obvious. Or have you never put your hand between your thighs, ser?" Margaery keeps her tone light, teasing. She doesn't wish to offend Brienne, but she doesn't know how to respond.

"Well, certainly not where anyone could see me," Brienne replies with some heat. "What do you think would happen if a soldier stumbled upon you?"

"I imagine nothing good," Margaery replies, embarrassed. She folds her hands in front of her. "I just- I do not know what came over me." Her hair has fallen into her eyes. She gathers a handful of curls, twists them back, tosses them over her shoulder. "Renly has no interest in me," she blurts out suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Renly. The king. My husband. He has not been in my bed once. Not even on our wedding night. I am still a maiden, like you, although I have been married for weeks." Margaery feels bitterness swallowing her again. "He spends his nights with my brother instead."

"I know," Brienne says. "I guard the tent."

"You know? Do you not care?" Margaery has heard those rumors, also.

"Why should I care?"

"Why, the camp says you're in love with him, ser. That he's the reason you're a knight. That when you're on duty, you creep into his tent and-" Margaery stops before she says something unkind, something that she already knows is not true.

"That is all false. I wish to fight for him because he is a good man. I believe in his cause. I love him as my king only." Her voice is calm and steady. "You have called me ser twice now. Do you mock me?"

"You are a knight, are you not? A member of Renly's Kingsguard? Then your title is "ser," is it not?"

It is too dark for Margaery to see how Brienne is looking at her, but she feels the other woman's gaze on her face, and the silence that stretches between them is heavy, comfortably heavy, with something Margaery cannot name.

"Why are you out here alone? You should be in your tent." Brienne asks again. This time her voice is softer, still gruff, but almost friendly.

"I came to visit my husband, but, as I said, he did not want my company. I am not in a position to seek out other company, so I did mean to return to my room, but the Kingsguard were passing, and I did not wish to be noticed. So I hid here."

"Why did you hide? You are the queen. You can do as you like."

"Yes, I suppose I can. But I have no wish to be seen leaving my husband's tent for my own, solitary one." Margaery exhales heavily. Her limbs ache for no reason, and she is exhausted and angry. "Please take me to my tent."

"Of course." Brienne says nothing on the way, even when Margaery feels tears run down her face, tears that have nothing to do with the thick smoke in the air. Margaery stops outside her tent, but the lady knight does not leave. "I will see you inside and wait until you light candles."

"Thank you," Margaery says, surprised but pleased.

"Renly would want me to see you safe," Brienne replies blandly, and Margaery is stung. She is about to refuse Brienne, but the other woman hovers at the flap until Margaery raises it high enough for her to enter.

Used to being alone, Margaery lights candles with a taper, loosening her gown as she does so. She lets first the bodice, then the skirt fall to the floor, forgetting Brienne's presence until she hears a rush of indrawn breath.

"Oh!" Margaery remembers and turns, her arm over her chest. Brienne's eyes are on Margaery, and her lips are slightly parted. She stands straight and still, her legs apart, and her eyes are bright.

At once, many things are clear to Margaery. It is abundantly clear that she should step forward, once, twice, three times, until she is within arm's reach of Brienne of Tarth, and so she does.

Brienne takes a half-step back as Margaery approaches, but then she seems incapable of any further movement. "Your Grace… your gown."

"I will not need it in bed." Margaery is close enough to Brienne, now, to breathe in her scent. She smells like sweat and smoke, but not unpleasantly so. She does not smell like a man, although she lives like one. The metallic tang of armor is present around her, but Margaery is accustomed to that everywhere. She takes one more step toward Brienne, and now the damp skin of her inner legs nearly touches Brienne's leather-clad thigh.

"Your Grace!" Margaery can tell that Brienne is trying to keep her voice steady. "I'll take my leave now." Brienne's voice wavers, though, and she makes no move to leave, so Margaery presses ever forward.

"I would prefer it if you stayed," she said. "You may leave if you wish, though."

Brienne's eyes do not move from Margaery's. "I do not wish to leave. But I do not know what you would have me do."

Margaery shrugs one shoulder and smiles in an attempt to hide the flush spreading across her face. "Whatever you wish."

"Very well." She begins to remove her armor, leaving a neat pile on the heavy wooden chair. When Brienne is clad only in breeches and shirt, she turns back to Margaery, giving her another long look. "If you wish me to stop, you must tell me immediately."

"I will not tell you to stop," Margaery says recklessly, and Brienne smiles widely, something that Margaery has not seen before. Then before Margaery can form another thought of any kind, Brienne is upon her. Her strong hands are large, heavy on Margaery's shoulders as she pushes her down onto the wide bed. Margaery's legs are thrust apart, and then Brienne's fingers are between her legs, seeking an entrance.

Brienne moans when she pushes her fingers inside Margaery, a long, low sound that is almost pained. It sends shivers down Margaery's back, and she clutches at the hand on her waist, the hand that's keeping her pressed onto the bed. What Brienne is doing feels good, but it isn't good enough.

"More," she says. "Harder." She doesn't know what she wants, and it's frustrating to lack the right words. But Brienne seems to know, because Margaery feels more pressure, then pain as her body stretches around Brienne's hand. It doesn't hurt too badly, though, and she likes the way it feels, especially when Brienne moves her fingers inside Margaery's body. She feels herself twitching, and she can't stop. Her breath comes out in ragged gasps, and she tries to sit up, but Brienne pushes her back down hard. Then she takes her hand from Margaery's waist and drags her rough fingers up into the folds between her thighs, lingering on the same spot Margaery had touched not an hour ago.

Long moans slip out between Margaery's panting breaths. No one has ever touched her like this, no one has heard her like this, her desperation evident in her abandon, and she can't form anything more than half-coherent thoughts, but it matters not in the least, because all that is in her head is _Brienne, Brienne_, and she is allowing the sensation of Brienne's long fingers, now deep inside her body, to consume her. She presses her hand against Brienne's, driving it harder against her skin. Brienne responds by moving more slowly until Margaery subsides, and then the pace of her fingers increases.

"What else can you do?" She asks, her eyelids heavy but still open. She would not look away from the look of intense concentration on Brienne's face for all the crowns in the world. Her words are shaky, but considered. despite her distraction.

The slippery wet sounds stop as Brienne's fingers slow, although her hand remains, solid and warm, on Margaery's body. "You do not enjoy this?"

"No, I do! I only wish to know what else I might enjoy." Margaery gives Brienne a half-smile, which she returns before sinking her face down and biting the soft skin just below Margaery's waist. Margaery shrieks in surprise, but desire makes her limbs weak and uncontrollable, and her hips buck against the bed.

"You cannot have everything at once, Your Grace." Brienne twists her fingers just _so_, thrusting the fingers of her other hand into Margaery, who cries out, long and low, as Brienne's fingers drive into her so deeply that she's pushed farther back onto the bed. Heat rises from low in her belly and along her thighs, gathering deep within, then bursts. She feels heat spread in her fingers and toes as stars swim across her vision. A slow pulsing continues in her groin as she lies mostly still, but for the occasional twitch, breathing heavily. Sweat beads her hairline, and she gathers her heavy curls and pushes them aside.

"You are very beautiful, my queen." Brienne sits back on her heels, then rises. She turns to the side, but Margaery can still see what she's doing as she raises her hand to her face. Brienne is taking in the scent of her, she realizes, and the realization sets heat flooding back along her thighs.

"Thank you." Margaery smiles, although she does not think Brienne can see her. "I very much like your voice and your hands." Brienne is not pretty or handsome, nor is she even particularly pleasing to look upon, but there is something beautiful in her wide blue eyes.

"Your words mean much to me," Brienne says earnestly. She wipes her hand on a handkerchief and replaces the cloth in her pocket.

"If I were out at night again, and our paths crossed, would you escort me home again?" Margaery chooses her words carefully, wanting Brienne to touch her again, wanting to learn what she can of Brienne's body, but not knowing how to be clear. Evidently she has succeeded, though, because Brienne gives her a small smile.

"I would be pleased to." She gives Margaery a short bow and ducks out of the tent. "I'll guard your tent until the next watch comes." The flap falls closed behind her.

Margaery sleeps quickly and easily for the first time in weeks, thinking only of the ungainly knight outside her tent. In the morning she wakes, her thighs stuck together. She traces her fingers along the perfect print of teeth marks on her belly and then presses her palm to her lips, smiling.

Fin.


End file.
